A Seditious Affair(25)

Thank God. A stabbed youth, a radical, far too much money on him, wearing Harry Vane’s coat. If that man Skelton heard about this, what conclusions might he draw?

Silas had to warn Harry. Before Skelton or any other law found out about this, before the noose tightened around the lad’s neck.

It wouldn’t be hard to find Lord Richard Vane’s direction. But Silas couldn’t go to find Harry there, even assuming the staff would permit a gutter-blood like himself to commune with a gentleman. That would just make everything worse. Harry had to be kept away from the bookshop, away from radical politics, away from the snares that would entrap Silas and George—

Not George. George was dead. Silas stared down at the scrawny, underfed body and felt his chest constrict.

Nothing to be done for the lad now except make sure his mother didn’t suffer. No accusations staining her dead son, no suspicions of theft falling on her. He had to keep Martha clear and Harry too.

He needed help and reluctantly, inevitably, he knew where it had to come from.

“Watch him,” he told Martha. “Don’t open the door. Get the coat off him if you can, when the stiffness goes. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

—

He had no idea where Dominic Frey lived, but he knew who might, and in little more than an hour, huddled against the spattering, cold autumn rain, he was knocking at the door of some very neat lodgings on Gerrard Street.

He didn’t expect much of a welcome. The men he’d come to visit would have been up until four, no doubt, and it was not yet nine. But he banged at the door anyway until it opened, to reveal a bleary-eyed Jonathan Shakespeare, who greeted him with, “Mason? You slab-sided lump.”

“Let me in, Jon. There’s trouble.”

Jon’s skin was dark enough that it didn’t show circles under his eyes, which was more than Silas could boast. Jon looked exhausted, but he admitted Silas, muttering under his breath. “Well, what’s the matter?”

“I need to know where Dominic Frey lives.”

“Be fucked. You’ve got me out of bed for your fancy man?” Jon’s voice rose with incredulous anger. “You think you haven’t given us enough trouble yet? Hell’s teeth!”

Silas growled. “Listen, will you? It’s not—”

“You listen,” Jon snapped. “I had Foxy David on my back yesterday, wanting to know why his lordship’s bosom friend is sporting a black eye off a man I introduced him to. You want to explain yourself to Foxy for me?”

That was Lord Richard Vane’s flashman, Silas knew, the servant who acted as his procurer, carried out his will in the running of Quex’s, and otherwise handled matters below a gentleman’s dignity. Silas didn’t give a damn for his opinion. “Bugger your Foxy. I need to talk to Frey, urgent, and it ain’t about private matters. It’s my lad Harry in trouble.”

“Yes, well, bugger Harry Vane, come to that,” Jon said. “I had to throw him out a few weeks back. Squabbling like a fishwife with his doxy-boy—”

“Jon!” Silas barked. “There’s trouble brewing, bad trouble. My lad George, my assistant, was murdered last night.”

“What? Christ.”

“And—don’t ask why, for God’s sake—I need to talk to Frey,” Silas went on. “I need his direction. Just do it, eh?”

There were light footsteps in the passage, and Will Quex pushed open the door, looking every bit as wretched as Silas felt. Like Jon, Will wore a dressing gown, loosely tied, and he hadn’t bound his breasts yet, so there was a slight, unnerving shadow of cleavage. Silas had known Will as a man for so long, he was startled on the rare occasions he recalled the fellow had been born Susannah.

“As I live and breathe, it’s Gentleman Jackson,” Will observed in a rasp. “Silas Mason, pet of the fancy. If you had to punch one of the nobs, did it have to be Frey? Because, one, I could name a few others who’d benefit more from having their daylights darkened, and, two, he’s the apple of Lord Richard’s eye, you stupid sod!”

“Silas’s assistant’s got himself killed,” Jon said.

“Oh yes?” Will flopped down in a seat. “Why are you shouting about that?”

“He wants Frey’s address.”

“Really. Fighting or fucking?”

“Neither,” Silas growled. “And while we’re at it, why did neither of you tell me who the bastard was?”

“You didn’t know?” Unholy glee dawned on Jon’s features. “You didn’t know—Mr. Radical—you didn’t know you were fucking Dominic Frey?”